


your heart is a shaken fist

by summerstorm



Category: Castle
Genre: Breathplay, F/M, Porn Battle, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gasps when her palm falls flush against his neck, and swallows when her thumb presses into the dip at the bottom of it, just for a second. "It's like this. Working on this case, it's like there are all these hands, and they're all trying to <em>choke</em> me." She meets his eyes firmly. "They're all trying to suffocate me and I don't see them coming. And I think if I could only step one step ahead, or have an eye on every single angle they could be coming at me, I will figure this out. And then I find out the one person I didn't think I had to be constantly watching is lying, too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heart is a shaken fist

**Author's Note:**

> For the Porn Battle XIII, based on the prompts: secrets, angry, wall, breath play.

Her hands are hard on his arms, fingers tight around his sleeves as she presses him into the bookshelf at his back. Kate never meant for this fight to get physical, but now that it has, it seems impossible to stop. He's been hiding things from her, for months, important things, things that were essential to her job and the one investigation she's just not willing to back out of, no matter how many mystery callers tell Castle she'll get killed if she digs any deeper. It's her choice to make, and she chooses to know, every time.

Castle knows that, or he wouldn't have kept secrets from her.

She kisses him, and she can feel the surprise rippling through his body, the way he stands a little taller and falls silent even though he wasn't speaking. His hand finds its way into her hair and he kisses back hungrily, desperately, like he's been waiting for this as long as she has, years upon years only to let the first time they share a real kiss be borne of anger and resentment.

It's still a real kiss, and her stomach is in knots when she pulls back, hit with the significance of that.

"Kate," Castle says softly, very, very carefully. She breathes in sharply through her nose.

He doesn't make any moves to get out of her grasp; he hasn't since she stormed in earlier and asked him point blank if he was hiding anything from her about her mother's murder investigation. Then things got louder, and she paced his house faster, harder steps, and now she's trying to figure out how they come back from this. Because they will, she has no doubt that they will, and that she will forgive him, but right now all she can think is she trusted him and he lied to her face. It doesn't matter why he did it. It matters that he thought he was entitled to take away _her_ choice.

"It's like," she begins, her mouth set, her hands still holding him back. She doesn't think she's hurting him, but she doesn't much care if she is. She moves her hands to his shoulders anyway, slowly higher and higher while she figures out how to say what she wants to say. He gasps when her palm falls flush against his neck, and swallows when her thumb presses into the dip at the bottom of it, just for a second. "It's like this. Working on this case, it's like there are all these hands, and they're all trying to _choke_ me." She meets his eyes firmly. "They're all trying to suffocate me and I don't see them coming. And I think if I could only step one step ahead, or have an eye on every single angle they could be coming at me, I will figure this out. And then I find out the one angle I didn't think I had to be constantly watching is lying, too."

"I'm sorry," Castle grits out, and it sounds like the kind of apology you say to placate someone, before you really understand that what you did was wrong. Kate gets that he thought he was doing the right thing by her, she really does, and that's precisely why she needs him to understand that the right thing here is always, always communication. In their line of work, and if he ever wants them to be in an actual relationship.

She works a boot between his feet and lines her body up against his. She can feel him getting hard against her thigh, and when she looks at him he only presses his lips together, no dumb apologetic looks, nothing that tries to make light of the situation. She gives him a quick nod, and tightens the hand around his neck again, not constricting his throat in any way, just there.

Almost casually, because it's just an afterthought, she comments, "Unlike you, I don't get off on people blocking my air vents," she says, "for the record."

His skin is hot under her hand, and he's staring at her now, pupils blown, mouth a tight line. He's not moving, but he's not frozen, either, and he has to know she'll back off if he just says the word—she's angry at him, she's pissed, but she wouldn't do anything to actually hurt him. He's letting her do this, he _wants_ her to do this, and she's so—so unsurprised that he likes this that it surprises her a little. It's not like she hasn't thought about it—maybe not this, exactly, but being in control, yes. And it doesn't feel that different from what she imagined, despite the situation; it's only realer. Tangible.

"Castle," she says, his name a warning, and slides her palm towards the front of his neck, squeezing lightly with just the sides of her thumb and forefinger. He takes a brief, sharp breath and nods shakily at her, his chin moving just barely, just enough for her to perceive it. "You realize I could kill you like this," she tells him, and his lids drop for a second before he opens his eyes again. His breathing is difficult now, audible, but she's not constricting the arteries completely; oxygen is still going to his brain. "My training was very thorough, and even if it hadn't been, I've seen enough cases of strangulation to know exactly how it works."

She tightens her hold again, and waits in silence for it to hit. His face looks increasingly numb, his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed over, his mouth slightly open. She leans in to kiss him again, a full press of lips, and he barely responds, only stretching forward for a moment before he lets his head fall back.

Her hand follows the motion and gives him another three, four seconds, and then she slowly lowers the pressure until she's released him. He inhales and his body jerks, exhales and it's his hips that roll against her leg.

"I get it," he says, his voice hoarse, answering a question it takes her a moment to remember asking. "You can handle it. I get it."

She edges her knee higher between his legs and his hips buck again. "Good," she says. It is good. All she wants him to realize is that she's a professional, and she's skilled, and being kept in the dark is the furthest thing from a weapon. In fact, it makes her as well as Castle liabilities, because they're not seeing eye to eye. They're not going to work through it in one night, but they may not be starting from as bad a place as she was dreading. She looks him over, as well as she can standing this close. "Think I can make you come in your pants?" The half smile she suppresses comes through in her words, but it's—that's okay. 

They are going to fix this; it's his fault he lied to her, but he's not the one behind the calls or the conspiracy or her mother's murder. He's on her side. And she doesn't want the first time they fuck to be all negative. She can still make a halfway decent memory out of this.

"After years of foreplay?" Castle begins to say, and she raises her eyebrows. "I think—" The rest of the words sort of fade away when she constricts his throat again, but he doesn't seem to care that much about it. She moves her knee, back and forth against him, encouraging, and he starts to grind down against her, faster and faster until she lets go of his neck, just for two seconds, and blocks his arteries properly this time, not as hard as she can but harder than she has all night. His eyes widen then, his body going still as he comes.

She lets go carefully, watching him to make sure he's fine. He stays where he is for a while, leaning back against the bookshelf with a lightheaded look on his face. She means to step back, but she feels good like this, and now she doesn't have to concentrate on not killing another human being, she realizes how turned on she is, too. She doesn't do anything about it, but she doesn't try to cool down, either. She just waits for him to come to.

With his eyes still closed, he mumbles, "Okay, my turn now," and Kate frowns.

"Sex is not about—" she begins, pausing for a moment when he starts to slide down until he's on his knees on the floor, his weight still mostly on his bookshelf. "Sex is not about turns," she finishes, but she doesn't sound very convincing. 

"Think of it as groveling," he says, looking up. He seems surprisingly lucid, all things considered, even if it takes him a few seconds to undo her fly. She sucks in a breath and watches her pants go down smoothly, stopping around her shins. He stares at her underwear then, eyes narrowed, like he's thinking of something. It would embarrass her, if she were that kind of person. As it is, it just makes her aware of how wet she is and how much she wants him to stop staring and do something.

"Castle," she says, and then sighs. "Rick." It's a peace offer, she thinks. Maybe. Temporary armistice. Whatever it is, he snaps out of his haze and reaches for her thigh, drawing her closer as he cups her over the fabric, pressing his palm to her, warm and solid. "This is not the time to be an asshole," she points out.

"Yes, ma'am," he says easily, and sticks four fingers around the crotch of her underwear, dragging it aside so he can pull her onto his mouth.

Her hand finds his head, running fingers through his hair before holding on and cooperating, rolling her hips as he slides thick fingers inside her and sucks lightly on her clit. She snorts, not really deliberately, and says, "This isn't groveling at all, it doesn't count if you're gagging for it."

He whimpers through his nose, the most pathetic little sound, and a low moan leaves her throat, her head tilting back, her hips rocking erratically. She wants to tell him he's not off the hook, because he isn't, because they're going to have to talk about that and this and also the things she's keeping from him—none of them life-or-death, none of them taking away his right to make his own choices, but still secrets it's about time she gets out.

Right now, though, all she can focus on is his mouth and her building orgasm. Everything else can wait for a while.


End file.
